


I'm Glad It's Me, Not You

by WhatIsAir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bucky getting the shit beaten out of, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Steve getting beaten the shit out of, pining Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two things in the world Bucky can’t help. The first is getting into fights. The second is getting into fights where Steve Rogers is concerned. Because somewhere along the line, Steve's become Bucky's whole world, and there's nothing Bucky wouldn't do for him.</p>
<p>Or, five times Bucky saves Steve's ass, and the one time it's the Winter Soldier who does it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Glad It's Me, Not You

There are two things in the world Bucky can’t help. The first is getting into fights. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, whether it’s his fault or not, he seems to be punching or kicking or biting.

The second thing he can’t help, as Bucky perhaps belatedly discovers, is getting into fights where Steve Rogers is concerned.

Sometimes Bucky swears he has specially attuned Steve-senses, because there’s no other reason why he should just happen across Steve getting beat up so many times throughout their adolescence and even adulthood.

xxx x xxx

_1929_

Steve grits his teeth, bracing his hands against the grimy alley floor as he shakily pulls his tiny frame upright once more, hands curled into fists which he raises defiantly.

The tallest of the boys – Tom, Steve thinks his name is – stares at him incredulously for a moment before snorting out a derisive laugh. “You really think you can do this, Rogers?” he drawls, indicating the hulking figures of himself and his two goons. As if on cue, they crack their knuckles simultaneously.

Ignoring the aching scrapes all over his body, Steve stays silent, loosely curled fists still raised. Tom takes a slow step forward, a predatory grin splitting his face when Steve takes an unconscious step back, tripping over his own feet and ending up sprawled on the dirty floor. The sudden, sharp sting of skin tearing off the palms of his hands has Steve wincing, so when Tom lands a kick to his ribs, Steve’s barely got his arms up to protect his face.

More blows follow, and Steve instinctively curls into himself, bringing his knees up to his chest to make himself as small a target as possible. A foot catches him on the chest and Steve can’t help the strangled yelp that escapes him; he can feel his throat closing up and his chest tightening with the beginnings of what promises to be a truly spectacular asthma attack, which is why he says between broken gasps, “Need – inhale – asth – ma – _please_ …”

From above him Steve hears someone – Tom, probably – mutter a scathing comment about ‘spineless punks’ not being worth their time, followed by another kick to his ribs. Steve jolts, and wheezes, concentrates on forcing oxygen into his lungs and not dying, his whole body trembling with the effort.

Then – a new voice. Angry and loud and indignant. “Oi! Pick on someone your own size, why dontcha?” There’s the sound of scuffling, of punching, of Tom yelling and cursing. Followed by the sounds of several pairs of feet running away at full speed.

Steve barely has time to marvel in his good fortune before he’s seized by another coughing fit, so severe that his vision blacks out for a second. He startles when his inhaler is pressed gently into his hand, and it’s only reflex action that has him lifting the thing with trembling hands to his lips and inhaling. It takes several long pulls before the fog clears and the weight on his chest eases, and several more before Steve can breathe without feeling like his lungs are about to collapse at a moment’s notice.

He turns to find another boy staring at him. He looks about Steve’s age, and seems to be almost as tall as Tom is. He’s scruffy and his clothes look like they’ve seen better days and his hair is sticking up like a virtual crow’s nest and on any other day Steve would probably have been scared of him and made every effort to give him a wide berth.

But then the boy smiles and it lights up his face and makes his eyes crinkle as he sticks out a hand to help Steve up. “Bucky Barnes, nice to meet ya,” he says, and Steve finds himself smiling, finds himself saying ‘Steve Rogers’, finds himself not minding at all when Bucky insists on walking Steve home. Or when he stays for dinner. Or when he comes back the next day. And the next. And the next.

xxx x xxx

_1932_

“Honestly, Steve, we can’t keep meeting like this,” Bucky says, voice a mixture of worry and exasperation.

Steve wants to answer him, wants to tell him to piss off, wants to tell him he can take care of himself, _thank you very much_ , that he doesn’t need Bucky’s incessant hovering and nagging and general mothering. He wants to say all of this and more, but it’s made harder by the fact that he’s currently on his knees in an alley behind a rundown apartment building, fumbling for the nozzle on his inhaler as he wheezes pitifully.

The inhaler’s snatched from his hands and before Steve’s got a chance to protest, Bucky’s got it the right way up and is holding it to Steve’s mouth. Steve sucks in a lungful of medication and almost sighs when his airways clear up and he can breathe properly again.

“Wouldn’t – have to – keep meeting – if ya didn’t – follow me everywhere,” Steve mumbles through inhalations, directing a baleful glare at his best (and only) friend.

“ _Shit,_ Stevie,” Bucky swears when he catches sight of the other side of his face. “The hell happened to your eye?”

“A fist happened to it,” Steve mutters, turning the other way and gathering up the books scattered across the ground to stuff them in his bag.

“’m gonna kill him,” Bucky says emphatically, which, incidentally, is what Bucky says pretty much every single time Steve gets beat up. In short, a lot. It’s flattering, really, that Bucky cares as much as he does about a skinny waif like Steve, which is why when Bucky demands to know why he’s smiling after he’s just been beaten six ways to Sunday, Steve simply shrugs and loops an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, letting the other boy take most of his weight (which admittedly isn’t much) as they head back to Steve’s apartment.

xxx x xxx

Sometimes, however, when Steve’s bitten off way more than he can chew, and there’s nothing Bucky can do about it, there’s a third thing Bucky can’t help himself doing.

It’s saving Steve Rogers’ skinny ass no matter what it takes, because at some point in his life, the punk’s become rather important to him, and Bucky doesn’t think he can go back to a life filled with Steve-less days.

He’s doing this for himself, after all, and Bucky Barnes has always prided himself in being an extremely selfish person. Everything he does, he does it because he doesn’t want to lose Steve.

xxx x xxx

_1936_

Bucky elbows his way through the crowded dance floor, towards the source of commotion coming from the far end, where the toilets are. He’s met with the sight of a drunken Steve squaring up to a massive hulking guy at least five times his size and twice his height.

“The end of the queue’s – back there!” Steve slurs, flapping a hand vaguely towards the end of a small line of people waiting for the bathroom.

The guy simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow and makes to push past Steve anyway, but Steve’s either too pissed or too stupid to stop at this point, because he plants himself directly in front of the man’s massive bulk and glares up (and up) at him tipsily, chin raised in defiance.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake –” Bucky moves to intercept Steve because at the rate he’s going, Brooklyn’s running out of alleyways for him to get beat up in and Bucky’s running out of patience to put him back together every single time.

Mr. Massively Muscled beats him by a mile, and before Bucky’s even taken two steps he’s already seized Steve by the collar and is bodily dragging him out the side door of the club and into the frigid November night.

Bucky sighs, shaking his head to dispel the lingering haze caused by the amount of booze he’s had, before following them out into (surprise, surprise) probably the only alleyway Steve’s not been beaten up in so far. Bucky’s had his fair share of drinks by this point, which means if (when) this escalates into a fight, he’s probably gonna end up punching the wall and thinking it’s the guy’s face or something equally embarrassing.

Steve’s collar is still caught in the guy’s unwavering grip, and he’s drunkenly trying to maneuver himself out of the unrelenting hold, to no avail. Mr. Muscles is holding him effortlessly, Steve’s feet barely scraping the ground as he drags him over to the far end of the alleyway.

“Hey, you!” Bucky yells, his voice coming out a lot more slurred than he’d expected. Huh. He doesn’t feel quite that drunk, but then again he’s also long passed the point where everything becomes dull and fuzzy and muted and he’s also seeing two of Steve.

Mr. Muscled Up And Menacing practically drops Steve to the ground when he whirls to face Bucky, eyes narrowing as he flicks his gaze up and down his body, as if assessing the new threat. Bucky honestly doesn’t think he’s in a position to be much of a challenge to anybody, but he still manages to grin cockily and wave.

“What’sa matter? Too scared ta take on somebody your own size? ‘S why you’re beatin’ up kids like ‘im?” he gestures to where Steve’s sitting dazedly on the ground, apparently too drunk to get back up.

Muscles smirks, slow and menacing, before stalking towards Bucky with even, measured footsteps. Bucky has a moment to reflect on what a supremely _bad idea_ it was to take Steve out tonight and what an even worse idea it was for them both to get this pissed before the guy’s right-hook catches him off guard and he stumbles and almost falls, barely getting it together enough to block the next punch he throws.

Bucky’s not sure how many blows he’s dodged and blocked when Muscly counters with a kick to his abdomen and he goes down, his alcohol-deadened limbs stubbornly un-cooperative. Bucky’s  got his arms up to protect his skull but it does nothing to lessen the sharp pain that lances through him when another kick lands on his ribs, followed by another, and another. At some point Bucky thinks he might have vomited, because there’s the distinct taste of puke on his tongue, and his insides feel like they’ve been pulverized.

When it’s over, and his assailant aims a final kick to his ribs and leaves, Bucky stays curled up on the ground, trying to breathe through the fire in his chest. He pushes himself to his hands and knees and crawls on shaky limbs to where he last saw Steve, desperation and panic fueling his movements.

“St – Steve?” he pants, voice hoarse and croaky, “You ‘kay?”

There’s no reply and the alleyway remains distressingly empty and void of Steve. Bucky struggles to breathe through the panic surging within him, pushing himself to his feet and using the wall to steady himself as he limps painstakingly slowly back to the side door, eyes desperately scanning the alley for his friend’s familiar blonde head.

He stops by the entrance back into the club and throws up unceremoniously, the acidic taste of bile sharp on his tongue. He leans back against the wall, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Vertical movement, he decides, is probably not the most advisable thing to do right now. At least his head’s cleared somewhat now he’s gotten some of the booze out of his system.

He still needs to find Steve, though, because Bucky’s not forgotten that it had been _his_ brilliant idea that the two of them go out for a drink (or ten) tonight, and if anything’s happened to Steve – Bucky doesn’t finish that thought. Doesn’t need to, because just then he hears a weak cough, and a slurred, “Buck?”

Bucky’s rounded the back of a dumpster and dropped to his knees beside Steve’s slumped form before he even register what he’s doing, his hands instinctively feeling Steve’s sides and running back up his arms to check for injuries.

Steve huffs and it’s a testament to how out of it Bucky is that Steve’s easily able to bat his hands away. “’m not hurt, jerk. Jus’ drunk off m’ass.” He lifts a shaking hand up to Bucky’s face (which Bucky knows must look pretty messed up), thumbing gently over his cheekbone. His voice is wrecked when he says, chokes out, “Why –?”

“Cause you’re a punk who ain’t got no sense ‘a self-preservation,” Bucky mumbles, and he’s not leaning into Steve’s touch (he’s _not_ ), except next thing he knows Steve’s arms are locked around his neck and Steve’s hugging him hard enough that Bucky thinks his windpipe might actually be in danger of being crushed.

“And ‘cus you’re my friend,” Bucky says, because he’s got a list of reasons a mile long as to why he’d gladly lay down his life for Steven Grant Rogers, and he wants Steve to hear every single one of them. Because he _knows_ that sometimes, Steve feels like he isn’t worth it, that he deserves every single punch and kick he’s ever gotten because he’s _useless_ and _sickly_ and is _never going to be of any good to anybody_. They’re all things Steve’s been called before, and while Bucky thinks it’s bullshit, he knows each word hurts Steve more than any blow he’s been dealt with in his life because some of it hits a bit too close to home. He knows Steve feels like he’s not doing enough to help, that he’s dead weight in this economy where most men their age are working double shifts at docks or factories to pay rent, to provide for their families, because who would want to hire a fella who looks like a strong gust of wind might knock him over?

What Bucky wants to do is gather Steve up in his arms and tell him not to listen to a single one of those words because the entire world is populated with idiots for not seeing how much Steve Rogers fucking _shines_. He’s possibly the kindest, most caring person Bucky’s ever known, the bravest, too. Because in all the years Bucky’s had to fend off the bullies beating the shit out of Steve, he’s realized one thing: bullies are cowards at heart. They’re always the first ones to run from a situation of conflict where they’re not the ones in control. Steve, on the other hand. Steve stands his ground and fights (however ineffectively) for what he believes in, and Bucky thinks that kind of courage and determination is probably what made him stay that first time, seven years ago, and save Steve from getting beat the shit out of.

It’s what made him realize, maybe a couple of years ago, that he’s fallen hopelessly hard for his best friend, and that there isn’t anything in this world Bucky wouldn’t do for Steve.

So he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the jut of Steve’s bony shoulder, basking in the warmth of Steve’s embrace. He doesn’t care if this isn’t entirely what he wants; because if taking a beating for his friend means Steve doesn’t get hurt any more than he already has, than Bucky’s damn well going to take it and be glad.

“You – _what?_ ”

Steve pulls away from Bucky’s hold and scrambles into a half-crouch against the wall, face twisted in what looks like unbearable pain. Bucky opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, before realizing he’s been talking all along.

“You –” Bucky licks his lips, which suddenly feel entirely too dry, “You heard – all the –?”

Steve’s nodding before Bucky’s finished his sentence, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. Steve blinks, eyelashes fluttering rapidly, and Bucky watches as tears track down his cheeks.

“It – was the booze talking?” Bucky tries, desperately, because Steve looks far less drunk than he was half an hour ago, and the thought of him actually _remembering_ what Bucky’s just said is mortifying.

“You – _jerk,_ ” Steve practically snarls, and the next thing Bucky’s aware of is Steve’s hands clutching either side of face and Steve’s lips pressing insistently against his own.

Now Bucky’s had his fair share of kisses before, but only ever with dames, and he’d only ever been fooling around with them. Nonetheless, he’s absolutely unprepared for the feeling of Steve’s slightly chapped lips against his own, soft and gentle, but determined and unyielding all at the same time. Steve’s not doing anything other than keeping up the pressure between their lips, and it’s at once gratifying to know Steve’s not going to do anything Buck’s not comfortable with, and maddening because he’s waited _years_ for this and now that he’s finally got it, all Bucky really wants is for the decision to be taken from him so he can just go along for the ride.

When Steve still makes no move to take things further, Bucky can’t help the exasperated laugh that escapes him – the gesture is just so completely and utterly _Steve_ that he wonders why he ever thought their first kiss (if, indeed, they did ever have one) would go any other way.

“What?” Steve pulls back, brow furrowing in confusion as he pulls back, “Did I do something wrong? You said –”

“You did everything right,” Bucky tells him, trying and failing to wipe the smile off his face, “I guess I’m just a bit – overwhelmed.”

“You’re overwhelmed? _You?_ ” Steve raises both eyebrows at him incredulously. “You unload all that shit on me and _you_ think it’s too much? How d’you think I feel?”

“I – it was meant to be private, Stevie!”

“What was I s’pposed to do? Pretend I never heard your stupid confession?”

“Is there any chance at all that by tomorrow you’ll have forgotten what I said?” Bucky groans, leaning back to rest against the wall next to Steve.

“Not a chance,” Steve elbows him lightly in the ribs, “I’m not even close to being drunk enough for that.”

xxx x xxx

They make it back to Steve’s apartment at a quarter to four. Steve’s mom finds the two of them in the morning, Steve curled up under the sheets and Bucky sprawled on the small couch in what passes for the living room in their tiny apartment.

Bucky wakes with a pounding headache and the horrifying realization that he might have fucked up the best thing he’s ever had in his life last night. He’s in the midst of cursing himself for his stupidity when Steve’s door opens and his friend appears, blonde hair in disarray and dark bruises under his eyes.

“Sleep well?” Bucky says, his heart in his throat as Steve turns bleary eyes on him.

Steve chooses to remain silent and instead glares mulishly at him as he proceeds to shove Bucky’s legs off the couch so he has room to sit.

Bucky pulls himself upright and scoots closer to Steve. He has to clear his throat before he can speak, keeping his voice low so Steve’s mom doesn’t hear. “Stevie, um. About last night, I –”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve cuts him off, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Dread seeps into Bucky’s body, settling into a solid, crushing weight on his chest. “No?” he asks, and he’s proud of how little his voice wavers. “Which part of it? Saving your ass or saving you from yourself?”

“ _Both!_ ” Steve shouts, pushing himself off the couch and glaring down at Bucky from where he stands. There’s a clatter from behind them and they turn to find the door to the apartment clicking shut behind Steve’s mom.

Steve barely seems to notice, as worked up as he is. “I don’t need your help, Bucky!” he continues, his tone noticeably softer, “I didn’t need it last night, I don’t need it now. The last thing I want from you is your _pity_!”

“Is that what you think this is?” Bucky’s standing now, too, looking down at Steve, who’s got his fists balled at his sides. “You think I – all of this, everything I’ve done – you think it’s out of pity for you?”

“Isn’t that what it’s always about?” Steve yells, eyes blazing as he steps forward to shove at Bucky’s chest. Bucky stumbles purely out of the unexpectedness of the action. “You’re no different than the rest of them – than everyone out there who thinks I’m useless, that I can’t even fucking take care of myself. And they’re right.  Admit it – I’m there to make you look good. Next to skinny Steve Rogers, what dame wouldn’t pick James Buchanan Barnes?”

Steve’s breathing hard by the time he finishes, and his chest is heaving so much Bucky worries he’s worked himself into an asthma attack. He’s already reaching for the spare inhaler on the coffee table when Steve’s hand on his wrist stops him.

“Don’t – bother – I can – do this – one thing,” Steve wheezes, his free hand flying up to massage his throat, as if he thinks he can force the oxygen into his lungs by sheer force.

Bucky huffs and reaches for the inhaler anyway, but Steve – _the stubborn idiot_ – absolutely refuses to use it, turning his face the other way instead. So Bucky abandons the inhaler in favour of running a hand along Steve’s shoulder blades and rubbing circles into his back. The soothing rhythm seems to help because after a while, Steve’s body stops shaking and his breath stops rattling out of his lungs with every inhalation.

“You’re a crazy bastard, you know that?” Bucky tells him, torn between forcibly shaking some sense into him and sobbing his relief into Steve’s bony shoulder. “You’ve gotta stop scarin’ me like that, ya hear me?”

Steve says nothing, instead glaring at his discarded inhaler like it’s personally offended him.

“Steve, hey, Steve.” Bucky grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around to face him. “It’s not pity.”

“Then what is it?” Steve’s eyes are red-rimmed and Bucky doesn’t think he can take it if Steve breaks right now, so he lets the words tumble out, haphazard and hesitant, but every single one honest and heartfelt.

“Fear, worry, exasperation, admiration,” he shrugs, “I look at you and I see someone who’s strong, someone who does what he wants for himself through sheer determination and pig-headedness. I worry about you – course I do – but no more ‘n you’d worry about your ma or me. _Jesus_ , Steve, it don’t gotta be pity when your best friend takes a beating for ya –” Bucky pointedly ignores Steve’s wince and ploughs on, “– I’m just glad it was me, ‘n not you. He’da taken your head off, ya know? What with how you were yellin’ at him. You’re still the bravest person I know, if that means anything to you –”

He’s cut off by Steve all but launching himself at him, and Bucky finds himself with an armful of Steve as he marvels over how their frames slot perfectly together, even where Steve’s all awkward angles and jutting bones.

He tightens his grip on Steve, feeling Steve do the same. He still has no idea how much of last night Steve remembers, or even where they stand, but right now, he has Steve in his arms again and he can pretend, at least for a while, that this is what he wants.

xxx x xxx

The Depression ends, the war starts, and Bucky becomes extremely proficient at lying to himself.

For the most part, he and Steve go on as if That Night never happened. They fall back into the easy friendship they had, and on the occasions when Steve runs his mouth and gets beaten the crap out of, Bucky’s always there – if not to do some beating up of his own, then at least taking Steve’s place.

It’s the least he can do.

xxx x xxx

_1943_

“Thought you were smaller,” Bucky murmurs, head still swimming from whatever Zola’s pumped into his system as he gazes blearily up at Steve.

When Steve effortlessly tears off the straps tying him to the table and proceeds to take most of Bucky’s weight as he stands, Bucky frowns and half-wonders if this isn’t some new scheme that Zola’s cooked up, to lure him into a false sense of security, because Steve – _his Steve_ – was short and skinny and asthmatic and a punk. Not tall and healthy and virtually _made_ of muscle.

He only realizes he’s lapsed back into reciting his name, rank and serial number under his breath when Steve’s hands on his face stop him.

Steve cradles his face gently, like he’s something fragile and breakable, as he smoothes a thumb over his cheekbone and down the line of his jaw. Bucky’s trembling, and he’s not entirely sure whether it’s the drugs or the fact that Steve’s hands still feel like Steve’s hands. Long-fingered, gentle, precise. An artist’s hands.

“Buck, hey,” Steve says, voice pitched low even though there’s no one around to hear him but Bucky, “It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna get you through this. I’m not goin’ anywhere even if you make me –” Steve’s voice hitches, and Bucky looks up in surprise.

“– I thought I’d lost you, when I heard about the 107th,” Steve ploughs on determinedly, blue eyes blazing with intensity, “I just – I don’t know what I woulda done without you, Buck.”

This time, which Bucky will always remember as the first time they kiss, it’s a bruising mesh of teeth and tongue and lips, as Steve crashes their mouths together non-too-gently, one hand slipping round to thread itself into Bucky’s hair, the other cupping the back of his neck, and Bucky sighs because while he’s not quite accustomed to kissing _up_ instead of _down_ , it’s still Steve’s mouth on his, still Steve’s emotions he can feel behind the kiss, the raw desperation and longing and worry that Bucky’s been feeling for God knows how long mirrored back at him with every press of their lips, every glide of their tongue against the other’s. And when they finally break apart, Steve leans down to press their foreheads together, exhaling shaky, trembling breaths, and Bucky realizes with a start that he tastes salt on his lips, he wonders how he could have ever doubted the extent of what Steve feels for him.

“I’m glad,” Bucky murmurs, only realizing he’s said that aloud when Steve pulls back to look at him.

“Glad?” There’s an expression of utter incredulity and disbelief on Steve’s face, as though he can’t for the life of him fathom what Bucky has to be glad about for being tortured.

“Glad it was me ‘n not you,” Bucky clarifies, and turns to lead the way out of the factory, because he can’t stand the way Steve’s face crumples when he says it.

xxx x xxx

“Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

A collective cheer erupts from what’s left of the 107th infantry, and when Steve – tall, strong, broad-shouldered, self-assured Steve – turns to look at him, as if for his approval, Bucky does his best to smile.

Because nothing’s the same anymore, will never be, and the least Bucky can do is be the supportive sidekick to Steve’s Captain America that he needs to be.

xxx x xxx

_1945_

When Steve goes down and the HYDRA soldier takes aim, Bucky doesn’t have to think twice about it. He lunges for Steve’s discarded shield and fires several rounds at the soldier, covering Steve, who’s still struggling into an upright position behind him.

His distraction works; the soldier’s rifle swivels around and Bucky barely has time to raise the shield before it opens fire. The bullets bounce off the vibranium and Bucky has a brief moment of disorientation as the force of the impact propels him out the side of the train.

Only reflex has him reaching out and grabbing onto the metal rail that protrudes from the train side. The sound of Steve calling his name cuts through the cacophony of the howling wind and the clanking of the train’s engine, and Bucky strains with his right hand to reach for Steve’s e left, the sound of his rushing blood pounding in his ears.

There’s a scant two inches of space between their hands when the railing that’s holding his weight shudders and sways.

He doesn’t realize he’s falling, doesn’t realize his screams are being drowned by the wind, until he hears Steve’s anguished cry of ‘ _Bucky!_ ’ and sees Zola’s train speeding away, sees Steve’s outstretched arm fall.

The last thing Bucky sees before the cold takes him is Steve’s face, twisted in pain and loss.

xxx x xxx

Bucky wakes up screaming.

He’s on his back, strapped to what appears to be a metal operating table. His entire left side’s on fire and he thinks his skull might be splitting open.

When Arnim Zola appears by his side and jabs a needle into the deadened nerve endings of his left arm, Bucky grits his teeth and allows himself to be grateful for the fact that he’s here, he’s the one strapped to this table, he’s the one Zola’s experimenting on, which can only mean they don’t have Steve.

xxx x xxx

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557…”

The words come as easily to his lips now as breathing does, what with how many times he’s said them. He knows Zola’s frustrated with the lack of intel he’s gained from Bucky, knows because he’s been steadily increasing the dosage of drugs HYDRA’s feeding into his system.

He’s started seeing Steve everywhere, just brief flashes – _Steve leaning over him and sticking a needle into what remains of his left arm, Steve brushing a kiss against his temple, Steve telling him he needs to let go, needs to let HYDRA remold him into the weapon he’s meant to be_ – there and gone so quickly Bucky can’t tell if they’re dreams or hallucinations.

He hopes with all his heart they’re not the real thing.

xxx x xxx

The first time Bucky wakes up and finds himself not in pain, is the day he breaks.

Zola walks into the lab one day with a self-assured smirk on his face. He’s carrying a radio under one arm.

“The radio conversation between one Agent Carter and Captain Rogers,” Zola informs him, fiddling with the controls. Bucky doesn’t miss the way he turns up the volume as loud as it will go.

‘ _…this is Captain Rogers._ ’

Bucky closes his eyes, so relieved he could have cried. Because HYDRA obviously hasn’t gotten hold of Steve yet, and it’s worth it – all of this, if it means Steve’s alright.

He’s only half-listening to Agent Carter’s side of the conversation, focusing instead on Steve’s voice. He doesn’t even stop to wonder why Zola decided to let him listen, especially when he’s had no contact with the outside world for however long he’s been strapped to this table.

‘ _…there’s not going to be a safe landing,_ ’ Steve’s voice says, tinny and staticky and Bucky’s eyes fly open, dread pooling in his stomach the longer the conversation goes on for.

‘ _I gotta put her in the water,_ ’ Steve says next, and Bucky breathes an almost simultaneous ‘ _please, don’t do this_ ’ along with Agent Carter, panic clogging his throat so much that he thinks he’s going to choke on it.

‘ _This is my choice,’_ Steve says, and even over the static and fear clawing at his heart Bucky can picture his earnest, determined expression, the one he’s directed at Bucky countless times in the past, usually before dragging him along on a harebrained scheme or expedition.

Bucky can’t think of a single time Steve’s backed down from something once he’s made his decision.

Then Steve’s voice cuts off and there’s only static, and Agent Carter frantically saying ‘ _Steve? Steve. Steve._ ’

Zola leaves the radio on, the static deafening when turned up this high. Bucky doesn’t resist as he usually does when Zola forces his mouth open and shoves a mouth guard inside.

When the machines whir to life and the pain starts, Bucky almost doesn’t feel it for the pain that’s scraping at his insides with every agonizing breath he takes. Because he’s living in a world where Steve Rogers doesn’t exist, and really, what’s the point?

Bucky closes his eyes, and the Soldier opens his.

xxx x xxx

_2014_

It’s him again. The man on the bridge. Captain Rogers.

They’re trading blows, but Rogers keeps on talking, saying things like – “You know me.”

“No, I _don’t!_ ” He punches Rogers across the jaw, intent on finishing his mission so he can report back to Pierce. Maybe this time, this time he’s not going to wipe him.

He hesitates at the sound of vibranium clanging against metal, and looks down to see Rogers’ shield falling from the helicarrier, down towards the waters of the Potomac a thousand feet below them.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Rogers says, jaw set and face resolute as he turns back to face him, stance open and hands held loosely at his sides.

He doesn’t know what to make of Rogers. The man can be lethal when he wants to be. He still remembers the coiled strength and sleek grace with which Rogers fought the other day, meeting him blow for blow seemingly effortlessly.

He remembers thinking Rogers fights beautifully, which is unusual because he hasn’t had a single non-mission-related thought for as long as he can remember.

So he does what he does best, and launches himself at Rogers, knocking the two of them to floor.

“Your name – is James – Buchanan – Barnes,” Rogers gasps, undeterred.

“SHUT _UP!_ ” he yells, and hits Rogers again, because he _knows_ that name, knows it like he knows the grip of an assault rifle in his metal hand, like he knows the sound of cracking bone as his fist connects. Knows those three words are followed by a set of numbers. _32557._

“You’re my friend,” Rogers says, gaze steady and unwavering on his.

“You’re my _mission!_ ” he yells, letting his fist fly.

Rogers doesn’t even bring up his hands to protect his face, he just goes slack and lets himself be pummeled. It’s infuriating, what little sense of self-preservation Rogers seems to have. It makes him want to demand that Rogers _fight back_ , makes him want to be hit by the man beneath him just _once_ , because maybe then the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with where Rogers kicked him will go away.

“Then finish it,” Rogers gasps, his face a mess of blood and bruises, but his one good eye clear and determined as he stares up at him. “I’m – just glad it’s me – and not you.”

He stares down at Rogers, hand still raised to finish his mission.

That’s when the other helicarrier crashes into theirs, and the world dissolves into a mess of fire and smoke.

Rogers slips from his grasp and falls.

xxx x xxx

He pulls Rogers from the Potomac, hauls him by his uniform to the edge of river. Deposits him as gently as he knows how.

Then turns and makes himself scarce before Rogers comes to.

xxx x xxx

He visits the Smithsonian, and spends entirely too long looking at the section dedicated to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He finds himself unable to look away from a projected image of what appears to be himself and Captain Rogers, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, smiling into the camera.

The muscles in his face feel stiff and un-cooperative as he tries to copy Bucky’s easy smile in the picture.

xxx x xxx

It takes countless more trips to the Smithsonian and even a couple discreet ones to the VA, where he sits at the very back and doesn’t do much more than listen to Sam Wilson talking, before James – that’s what he’s decided to call himself – pays Steve a visit.

xxx x xxx

He walks into the Avengers tower with both hands (flesh and metal) on his head, and doesn’t protest when he’s cuffed and herded into an interrogation room and ordered to sit.

“I’m here to see Captain Rogers,” is all he’ll say, regardless of the question.

It’s barely ten minutes before there’s the sound of a commotion outside the room, which, inconveniently, is practically made of one-way glass. James doesn’t have long to wait before Steve shoulders his way in, in full Captain America uniform, ignoring the protests of the agents standing guard.

Steve’s entire posture changes when he sees James. His shoulders sag in – relief? Disappointment? James isn’t used to reading people in non-combat situations.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, and James doesn’t bother correcting him because the name sounds right, maybe because it’s coming from Steve.

“I – don’t remember very much,” James says haltingly, because it’s a weakness, and he hates it.

“It’s okay,” Steve says reassuringly, eyes scanning over James’ body as though he still can’t believe he’s here, as though he can’t bear to take his eyes off him for fear he’ll disappear the moment he’s not looking.

James doesn’t think he’s ever had anyone look at him like that, and he’s surprised to find that he likes it.

“You used to be smaller and got beat up a lot,” James says, the end of his sentence lilting up in a question as he glances uncertainly at the man in front of him.

Steve grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all day. “Yes, and yes. You gave me hell every time after I got into a fight.”

“Yeah, cause you were a punk with no sense of self-preservation,” James snorts, and freezes at how easily the banter rolls off his tongue.

“Well, you were a jerk who didn’t know when to leave a guy alone,” Steve retorts, mouth tilting up in a crooked grin James hadn’t realized he’s missed seeing.

James has rounded the table and fisted his cuffed hands in the collar of Steve’s uniform before he knows what he’s doing.

“Buck, what –”

He doesn’t even think about it, because he’s done waiting. He thinks seven decades is a long enough amount of time for a fella to wait, and he’s done being considerate.

Instead he tilts his face up and covers Steve’s mouth with his own. Steve makes a startled sound that he swallows, then he’s sliding his tongue past Steve’s lips and Steve’s hands are tangling themselves in his overly long hair, tugging on it gently, and Bucky _remembers_.

xxx x xxx

_2015_

Bucky takes out a Kree warrior about to sneak up on Steve with a well-timed shot, before whirling around to stick a knife into the gut of another coming up behind himself.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says over the comm, “Honestly, you’re better back-up than Clint’s ever been.”

Bucky grins and busies himself with reloading as he listens to Clint’s indignant squawk.

“That’s not fair! Name _one time_ when I didn’t have your back, Cap!”

“Well – there was the time –” Bucky watches through the sight as Steve takes out another two warriors, knocking a third out with his shield, “– in Lensk, when I was knocked out cause your eyes were on Natasha’s as –”

“On my what, Captain?” Natasha’s voice cuts in smoothly. Bucky swears he hears the sounds of her snapping an unfortunate Kree’s neck over the comms.

“Assault rifle,” Steve says after a prolonged pause, and Bucky snickers loudly before realizing the rest of the team can hear him over the comms, too.

“Thank you, Barnes,” Natasha says coolly. Bucky watches from his vantage point as she breaks a Kree’s neck, shoots another one in the forehead and somehow manages to give him the finger, all in the same move.

“Less chit-chat, more working, people!” Tony cuts in, firing his repulsors so two Kree ships go down.

Bucky focuses on covering Steve and taking out as many potential threats he can see. At one point Steve glances at the rooftop Bucky’s perched on, amused grin on his face as he spins to take the twelve Krees lying dead, none of them even coming close to touching Steve.

“Thanks for doing my job,” Steve tells him over the comm.

Bucky’s about to reply, when movement behind Steve has him yelling, “On your six!”

Steve spins and takes out the Kree with the side of his shield. “Thanks.”

“Jesus, Rogers,” Bucky says before he can stop himself, “Do I have to save your _assault rifle_ every single time?”

“Not when you can just pound it into next week,” Steve says back, much to Bucky’s and the rest of the Avengers’ chargin.

There’s the sound of their entire team’s collective groan over the comms, followed by Sam swearing, and Tony’s loudly voiced complaints about them flirting over the public comm line, followed by Thor’s polite inquiry as to why the two of them want to damage firearms.

Steve’s quietly muttered, ‘I forgot it wasn’t a private line’ goes completely unnoticed and Bucky cackles as his boyfriend’s face slowly turns beetroot red.

“– Bucky, behind you!”

Bucky whirls and slams the butt of his rifle down on the Kree’s  head, pulling a handgun from its holster on his back and shooting its friend in the face as he does so. “Thanks.”

This, Bucky thinks, as he turns back to scanning the ground below, and expertly takes out another Kree, is the life he never knew he wanted.

A life where he and Steve have each other’s backs.


End file.
